The Solace of Writing, the Joy of Community: An Author Roundtable

Crystal Hana Kim and R. O. Kwon chat with me about creative rituals, drafting versus revision, finding comfort in community, and favorite writing tips.

This is a subscriber-exclusive edition of I Have Notes, a newsletter in which I share essays, interviews, advice, and notes on writing. Previously in my craft conversation series: Bryan Washington and Lydia Kiesling.

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Chances are you’ve heard someone refer to writing as a solitary pursuit. It’s true that before you start sharing your work—particularly if it’s a longer project, like a book—you may spend a lot of time alone with it, drafting and problem-solving and fighting to maintain your faith in it until it’s ready for other eyes. This has been my experience with my next book, anyway; until very recently, I was the only person who’d read most of it. But my writing life is anything but isolated—it would be impossible to list all the friends and colleagues who’ve generously read and talked with me about my work, offered helpful advice, challenged me, and helped me learn over the years.

Today I’m thrilled to be able to share a conversation with two such luminaries, R. O. Kwon and Crystal Hana Kim. We met in 2018, when Kwon’s The Incendiaries, Kim’s If You Leave Me, and my memoir All You Can Ever Know were published within a few months of each other. Since then, they’ve both continued to inspire me with their work while supporting me in mine. (It’s no exaggeration to say that I might not have managed to write through the grief and uncertainty of the last several years without our group chat.) A few weeks ago, the three of us met over Zoom to compare creative rituals and favorite writing tips, share what community has meant to us in a time of rising violence against Asian Americans, and talk about where we’re currently finding joy and comfort as we all work on another round of books.

Nicole Chung: I wanted to start by asking you both how—as in, how in the world—you’ve been writing these days, and also what you’ve been working on?

R. O. Kwon: I’ve mostly been working on my next novel. I’m finding that the more I can work on it every day, even if it’s just a little, the better—though I should note that I don’t have children, and of course writing every day doesn’t work for everyone.

Ingrid Rojas Contreras’s piece on self-mesmerism has changed how I work and made it far more possible for me to find refuge in it, even on chaotic or stressful days (knock on wood—I’m just going to say that every time I say something nice about novel-writing). In Ingrid’s piece, she talks about how she wears a certain shade of ultramarine, reserved only for writing. When I talked to her about it, she compared it to creating a kind of holy ground where the writing happens and other things don’t. She also said that the more you do it, the more your body will become conditioned to how you define that ground and what you do there. It’s been so true for me—I have this one silk shawl that was a pandemic-sadness purchase, and it’s especially impractical for San Francisco, where I live, because it’s usually too cold here for silk. So it’s become my writing shawl, and even the feel of the fabric feels different, and devoted to writing. Inspired by Ingrid, I also change the lighting for novel writing; I have writing-related music that I only play when I write; I have a certain mug I only use when I’m writing. I have other rules while I’m wearing that shawl: no news, no social media, no email, no texts. All this means that I create a certain kind of space and give myself cues that let me know the work is happening. It also cuts down on the anxiety of starting a writing session, because history says that every time I have that shawl on, some amount of writing happens.

Crystal Hana Kim: I’m going to try that. I love that you’re protecting your writing time.

Last year, I spent a lot of time writing essays, but this year I’ve mostly been focusing on novel-writing when I’m not teaching. I used to have a set ritual of lighting candles, but my toddler has taken all my candles! He loves them, so we light them during mealtimes now. Because my life has gotten busier since having a baby in 2020, I feel a greater urgency to write. Before, because of that anxiety you mentioned, I would sometimes put off starting the act of writing. Now I want to get back into my book whenever I have the time. I will say, also, that I’m in the revision stage now, deep in the narrative world, so it’s easier for me to slip back in.

Chung: Just curious, do you enjoy drafting or revision more?

Kwon: Revision! Any first draft is a terrifying slide down a rocky, icy slope that might kill you.

Kim: The first draft is always so hard, because I’m trying to figure out what I want to say, what the characters want to do, the parameters of the questions I’m asking. It’s only in revision where I have a shape that I can then mold. Revision’s much more satisfying.

Chung: Yeah, revision is when I actually start to like some of what I’ve written!

Can we talk a little about our writing groups, and how we’ve been helped by or learned from them? Maybe I’ve told you both before, but this is the first ongoing group chat I’ve had with fellow Korean women writers, and it’s been so lovely and so important to me.

Kim: This is also the first group of Korean writers I’ve been connected with on a near-daily basis. I love you both, and feel so grateful we were able to meet by happenstance, having our books come out around the same time. When I was pregnant during the pandemic, and scared of how motherhood would change my relationship to writing, it meant so much to feel connected to you both as women, as Korean Americans, as writers, as creatives.

Kwon: As y’all do too, I have other Korean friends, but this is my Korean women writers’ group chat. I think it would be wonderful at any time, but especially over these past few years, it’s felt really necessary and special.

Chung: Yes, there’s been so much upheaval, so much specific and collective grief. It’s meant a lot to be able to reach out to you both, to talk about the rising violence against Asian women and elders—if I say, “I can’t write today; my heart is breaking,” you’re not going to ask me, “Why, what happened?” Because you understand the toll; you recognize how this anger and pain can intersect with and affect creative work, and community work, and family work, and everything else we have to do.

Kwon: After the murders of Michelle Go and Christina Yuna Lee, it could feel comforting to just talk with fellow Asian Americans and hear them saying, “This hurts. We’re hurting. We’re furious and we’re grieving.” I know there’s a lot going on, and every day there’s more bad news, but it can feel so strange to be stricken with news-related sorrow and sometimes have others be unaware of why, you know?

Kim: I remember texting you both when the Atlanta shootings happened. I had such a strong physical reaction; I felt like I was sick. I had a really hard time writing anything at that time. Having your essays out in the world was so helpful for me, because I felt very seen and supported. I felt like you were both explaining how so many Asian American women feel, and why the fear and rage is so raw. When I shared your work, there was always another Asian American woman in my DMs saying, “I needed to read this.”

Chung: Thank you so much for sharing that, Crystal. Over the last couple of years, I’ve often found myself sitting down and thinking, Anyone can read this, but I’m going to write something for us. Sometimes I’ll even think about my conversations with the two of you, specifically, and I’ll imagine that I’m talking to you, thinking about what we might want or need to hear, as I write. I think there is a kind of freedom in writing to and for us and our communities. I’m so thankful that you’re both here, doing the work you want to do, writing beautiful books that are also books for us. Because for so long, you know, I didn’t see us when I looked at my bookshelves.

As you write, where are you finding your solace or joy right now?

Kim: This is so simple, but friendships have been a deep source of joy for me. A lot of the work we do, especially writing books, can take years, and that work is inherently solitary, so staying connected with other writers especially makes me feel less alone. I also find a lot of comfort in writing, because every time I come back to the page, I’m getting closer to my end goal, bridging the gap a bit more.

Kwon: I’ve also been finding a lot of solace in the act of writing, and in the ritual/habit of spending time with my work. On a very practical level, if I’m writing my book, spending all this time on it, sacrificing sleep and peace to it, that means on some level I believe in a future where this book could exist. Even with the news as scary as it is today. I feel that way about your books, too. The fact that writer friends all over the world are working on their shit, even with the world as it is, feels like a wild act of sustained hope. I’ve found this with community and political work, too—if I’m acting as though I have hope, then I already have hope.

Kim: Exactly, working on art means believing in a future where it can exist. It’s hope, and a bit of defiance, too—the insistence that art matters, even though world events right now are so disheartening.

Chung: You both teach as well—how does teaching interact with or maybe nourish your writing?

Kim: Regardless of how I’m doing with my own writing, in my teaching I’m always hopeful, because I want my students to feel hopeful about their work. And if I’m in a moment when I don’t feel as confident in my own writing, teaching circles back and teaches me. It’s always reminding me of the beauty of writing and art, so I feel like I’m learning from my students as well as myself.

Kwon: Teaching would be even more ludicrous than writing if I didn’t believe it was going somewhere, because I’m taking up other people’s time, too! Why would I do that, why would I teach, if I didn’t believe something would come of it? I don’t mean publishing, but I mean the work of writing, of reading, of engaging in a sustained way with words.

Pretty much everyone I know who publishes a book says this is true: The best part is the writing. That might sound kind of grim, like there’s nothing at the end of the rainbow, but to me it’s cheering—it means the best part is so much more available. It’s right there, if you can write.

Chung: Do you have a favorite piece of writing advice you always share with your students?

Kwon: Try to stretch—especially your spine and your neck—on a regular basis, and start early. So many writers have fucked-up backs!

Kim: When I was a student, I was often told, “Don’t think about audience.” I think when you’re writing, you should be consumed, fully in that world, and not necessarily thinking about publishing. But I do think it’s important to think about audience, who it’s for, and so that’s something I tell my students.

Chung: Right—thinking about who you hope will read it and what you want them to get from it is part of thinking about your intentions for the piece.

Since I put you both on the spot, I’ll share that one of my favorite pieces of advice came from a teacher who told us to remember that we’re all working and trying to become the writers we’re meant to be—and that is not something you can lose to anyone else, because no one wants to do exactly what you want to do or create what you want to create. We’re not out here fighting for limited resources. The work is limitless. I think that’s the moment when I stopped comparing myself to others. And it’s another reason to feel hopeful in your writing, because it is leading you somewhere, no matter how long it takes.

Kim: I love that. Competition is such a poison. I find a lot of happiness when I see other people I know publishing their books—especially debuts, especially other women and people of color. Like seeing Jean Chen Ho’s Fiona and Jane out in the world now, or the forthcoming The Town of Babylon, by Alejandro Varela. That gives me so much joy, and it reminds me that the book world is still thriving.

Kwon: It also brings me such weird joy that sometimes a book by a Korean person will come out and I won’t have known about it, and I’m just like, I used to know about all the Korean books, because there was one a year, maybe!

Chung: Yes! Of course I will always want more books by Korean Americans, but there are so many more now—so many that we are frequently caught by surprise.

What do you both feel you’ve learned since our first books came out? I feel like I was a totally different person then.

Kim: I feel like I was, too. One thing I’ve learned is that, really, the best part is the writing. When my first book came out, I was so excited to publish, and I felt real impatience. I feel a little less of that now because I have the confidence to believe that I will continue to publish. I know what it’s like to write a book, I know it will happen again, and so I’m happy to be alone with the work for longer.

Kwon: When it comes to getting work done and accountability, I’ve learned that I don’t want to let down my friends and loved ones. So having a couple of daily check-ins with friends about what we’ve written, if we’ve written, feels enormously encouraging to me. It’s so satisfying to send messages to my writing-accountability group chats and say, “I wrote X number of words today!” I can let myself down 20 times a day—it’s no big deal, just another broken promise to myself—but I don’t want to do that to my friends.

I’ve also tried to listen to my body more. If there’s some part of my body that’s telling me, This scene doesn’t feel quite right, it’s always right and I should listen.

Chung: So important and yet often so hard to do. Okay, last question: What helps you get excited about something new in your creative life?

Kim: A change of location often helps me a lot, whether it’s from the desk in my bedroom to the living room, or vacation. We went to an Airbnb in rural Ohio recently, and something about seeing my work in a new space sparked new ideas for me. That’s why I always bring my work on vacation.

Kwon: There’s one thing that’s recently helped me read more—I used to spend so much time miserably scrolling through social media in bed, insomniac, but then Kirstin Chen told me she has a rule that she will never check social media in her bedroom, and it was mind-blowing to me. So now I don’t, either. I spend more time just reading books in bed now, and it’s so much better for my head not to read the latest horrible news at 4 a.m.

Kim: Speaking of getting back into reading, poetry always helps me. Lately I’ve been reading a poem aloud before I start my writing, as a way to enter the writing space.

Chung: I love that!

Kwon: And that you read it aloud!

Kim: It’s a tip I learned from Eloisa Amezcua! It transformed poetry-reading for me.

Chung: Poetry is magic. It’s what I read to shake myself out of a reading or a writing slump.

Kwon: Yes, when I feel grim or confused, I’ll go read a poem. I’ve had Natalie Diaz’s Postcolonial Love Poem on my desk for the entire pandemic, and if I go reread one of her poems, it’s always so fucking powerful that I just can’t quite feel so grim anymore.

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As always, thank you for being here and spending some time with my newsletter—I hope you enjoyed this writing roundtable as much as I enjoyed putting it together! I have just a few more notes to share:

• I spoke with Elise Hu about violence against Asian women on NPR’s It’s Been a Minute. I also visited Brittany Packnett Cunningham’s UNDISTRACTED podcast to talk about taking time to process and grieve, building strong communities of care, and the conversations I’m having as both a parent and a transracial adoptee.
• If you’ve ever found yourself wondering “Where does Nicole write?” you can see and read more about my creative space—and my beautiful dog—right here (from Catapult’s very fun Where We Write series).
• The Atlantic has created a newsletter survey they’d love for you to fill out if you’re willing—it’s a chance for you to offer some feedback about this and any other subscriber newsletters you might receive, and share what initially led you to them.
• Do you have a question about friendship, family relationships, writing, or creative work that you’d like me to answer in an upcoming newsletter? You can send it to [e-mail].